


There's Something Tragic About You

by SeventhStrife



Series: AUideas Advent Calendar: 2016 [5]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Experiment Sephiroth, Forced Experimentation, Joining the circus, M/M, Ringleader Cloud, Runaway, Runaway Sephiroth, Troupe Leader Cloud, violence isn't really that graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: “Joining the Circus” AU  
  
  Character A has the notion that they can run away from home and join the circus – even if they can’t stay with the circus, maybe Character A can get a ride to the next town. While sneaking around the camp at night, Character A is looking for a place to stow away when the ringmaster, Character B, catches Character A.


It's not the most air-tight plan. But it's better than staying.





	

Sephiroth doesn’t have a clock, but he knows it’s too early for testing when his door opens. Still, he does as expected. He rises from the bed and stands at attention, hands loosely held at his sides. Wais for orders.

It’s Doctor Gast, and Sephiroth takes in the minute details in less than a second, as he’s been trained to.

Heavy breathing from sudden exertion. He ran here. Wide eyes, flicking to the camera, indicating anxiety. Guilt. Hunched shoulders, quick gate to meet Sephiroth. He looks hounded, distressed.

Afraid.

Gast’s palms come up to grasp Sephiroth tight by the shoulders, two warm points of contact that makes Sephiroth wish he could leech the heat from him. The touch, any touch, is so rare.

“I don’t have much time.” The fingers squeeze, digging in. Sephiroth watches Gast silently, confused. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. He has to wait for Gast to explain himself further before he can understand what he’s supposed to do.

“Sephiroth, it’s important to me that you listen to what I’m about to tell you like it’s the last thing you’ll ever hear, understand?”

Sephiroth doesn’t, but he knows to be silent. He watches.

“What they’re doing to you here—it’s wrong. You’re a  _ person,  _ Sephiroth, not a weapon. You have a mother and a father out there. These people, what they’re doing, it’s hurting you and you don’t deserve it.”

Gast lowers himself to one knee, a slight wince the only indication that he can hear security’s pounding the floor not far away.

“You have to  _ promise me,  _ Sephiroth. The second you see a chance, you take it and get  _ as far from this place as you can.” _

Sephiroth stares, shocked beyond words, nearly beyond thought. So many bombs have been dropped in a single moment, but this last one is the most devastating.

Leave? Where would he go? What else is there? Sephiroth’s entire existence has been to obey, to be quiet, to be passive. He’s never dreamed of more, but now an entire galaxy of possibility opens before him and he hesitates on the threshold, scared of the plunge. 

Gast rises, leaving Sephiroth bereft of warmth. “I have to leave.”

He makes it to the door and spares Sephiroth one last glance. “Be strong, son.”

He slips through the door, quiet as a ghost, and Sephiroth finds himself rooted in place.

He’s still standing there fifteen minutes later when he receives another guest.

Professor Hojo sweeps into the room, beady eyes roving over Sephiroth and his surroundings as if he were no more interesting than a lamp. Behind him is one of his assistants, viciously scrawling something, and two security guards, guns up. They investigate Sephiroth’s room while Hojo approaches.

“Sephiroth, have you seen Gast?”

“I have.” Suddenly four pairs of eyes focus on him.

“He was? Why? What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

“Indeed?” Hojo gave Sephiroth a shrewd look. “Well, then, what did he  _ say?” _

“Goodbye.”

“And that was all?”

“Yes.”

Sephiroth keeps his breathing very even and calm as Hojo walks a bit closer, black eyes cold behind his spectacles.

“Are you being honest with me, Sephiroth? There isn’t some detail you are overlooking?”

The need to be flawless to prevent further pain and a desire to protect Gast tears him in two for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he decides to compromise between the two.

“He...he told me I had a…”

He wants to ask  _ so bad  _ but vocalizing it seems like giving a heavy weight to a dream that could crush him to into dust.

“What? What did he tell you?” Hojo is frowning rather severely and Sephiroth realizes his window of opportunity has passed. He has to say  _ something. _

“He said...I have a mother. A father.”

Sephiroth has never seen Hojo speechless. But today is just full of surprises. Hojo blinks and the others are deathly still, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves.

Hojo collects himself, straightens slightly from his hunch. “Did he? Interesting. Meddlesome.”

“Is...is it true?”

Hojo shot him such a look of disdain Sephiroth automatically shrinks back despite himself.

“What does it matter? Let’s go, we’re wasting time here."

The security officers leave first, taking point and aiming their guns up and down the hallways like Gast is waiting in the ceiling with a knife clenched between his teeth. Hojo and the assistant make to follow, taking the last clue of Sephiroth’s past with them.

“Please.” Sephiroth has never said the word before, but he’s seen it in practice between the doctor's that observe him. He doesn’t like the taste of the word on his tongue, vulnerable and pleading and  _ weak.  _ But for this? He thinks he might do worse things. “I just want to know.”

Hojo glances back at him, completely unreadable, before shrugging easily. “They’re dead now, anyways, their names are of no consequence.”

_ “Sir,”  _ the assistant whispers admonishingly. They’re resuming their walk out, no concern for the black pit of despair hope has cast Sephiroth in.

“What?” Hojo’s voice is annoyed.

“Sir, he’s just a child…”

“Sephiroth is no mere  _ child.  _ He is the genesis of a better tomorrow.” The door slides shut, but now quick enough to muffle Hojo’s last words.

“Besides, he’s nearly ten. We can’t expect to coddle him forever now, can we?”

Sephiroth takes Gast’s words to heart. After the revelation of a family and the taunting fantasies his mind plagues him with of a life of normalcy, a determined fire lights within his chest.

Sephiroth decides to run away. How soon turns out to be another matter entirely.

He never learns what Gast’s mysterious transgression was that caused him to flee like a thief in the night, and he’s never seen or heard from again. For weeks after, Hojo’s mood is even crabbier and left to his own thoughts, more often than not, he can be found grinding his teeth.

As a consequence, however, security is tripled. Sephiroth can hardly breathe without someone’s eyes or camera lens on him. 

Sephiroth is also moved. Exactly where, he doesn’t know, only that it is down, down the elevator. His surroundings are impossibly colder, the people bland and sterile.

Time passes, but the opportunity to flee doesn’t come. 

The tests continue. Sephiroth is given a sword and told to kill. Sephiroth is dropped into a cage with a behemoth and told to survive. Sephiroth is injected with mako so often his eyes turn green and his hair grows long and silver.

Sephiroth is told to obey.

For years, Sephiroth plays the quiet, meek test subject. For years, he seethes. For years, he exercises patience, if for no other reason, than to spare himself the punishment of a breakout gone awry.

Then, one day, nearly thirteen years later, opportunity strikes.

Hojo has just left the room to study the test results of a project in a different lab. Sephiroth, having shown a deep-rooted docility since childhood, is released from his restraints by one of the three assistants still in the room.

They talk amongst themselves as if Sephiroth is not even there. As if removing the restraints on a grown man being forcibly experimented on is the same as removing a petri dish from beneath a microscope.

A flash of color from the assistant’s lab pocket catches his eyes and Sephiroth speaks.

“What...is that?” His voice is rough and scratchy with disuse.

A heavy blanket of silence instantly descends. They all gaze at Sephiroth with astonishment, and with good reason. Sephiroth has never spoken to any of them, and some have been here longer than Sephiroth has.

“Uh...what?” 

Sephiroth jerks his head. “Your pocket. That paper...what is it?”

“Er.” Looks are exchanged over his head, but excitement is quickly taking the place of caution; how often will one-on-one time with the Subject come up without Hojo’s supervision?

The paper is offensively colorful in the white room. Red, green, blue, yellow, orange—colors Sephiroth has been taught, has caught fleeting glimpses of, but nothing as vibrant as this.

“Someone off the street gave this to me. It’s an advertisement for the circus.”

“Circus…?”

“It’s uh, a show.” Another voice, the female assistant. “There’s usually exotic animals and dancing. Clowns and people in costumes doing daredevil stunts. They’re passing through this weekend.”

“Passing through?”

“Circuses travel all over the continent.”

Sephiroth says nothing, staring blankly, and he can see the moment when excitement shifts to discomfort. It’s a strained, pregnant pause the few times Sephiroth reminds them of his humanity.

The man with the flier tucks the paper back in his pocket. He clears his throat. 

“I think we can wrap this up—”

Sephiroth flexes his arm and tears through the last restraint with the ease of ripping wet paper. Around him, his tormentors and abusers squeal like prey, afraid and desperate, and that makes them dangerous. But Sephiroth is trained, and they don’t even have weapons.

He subdues them before their eyes can even register he’s moved. One by one, a quick blow to the base of their skulls and they all crumple to the ground. It’s  _ deeply  _ satisfying, but he doesn’t kill them. He  _ wants  _ to, but he doesn’t. For the first time in his life, Sephiroth is doing something for himself.  _ He  _ gets to decide who he kills.

Sephiroth has the entire floor memorized, years of hoarding breadcrumbs of information left thoughtlessly behind, straining his ears for the echo of footprints as they fade. He swipes a key card from one of the higher-ranking doctors, retrieves his blade from where it’s sheathed across the room, and fishes the flyer from the doctor’s pocket.

It’s a sign, he knows it. And he’ll be damned if he let’s it pass him by.

Sephiroth very carefully folds the paper and slips it beneath his paper-thin shirt to rest over his heart. He places his hand over it for a moment, peaceful even as the first alarms begin to ring and the lights shift from relentlessly bright white to an angry pulsing red.

He thinks of Gast, and it chases the last clinging wisps of fear and doubt. He stalks from the room, drawing his blade as scores of booted feet pound his way.

_ ‘Let them come.’ _

In the pale sliver of moonlight, Cloud leans against a tent. 

The night is drawing to a close, work-wise. Cleanup is underway inside the main arena and the few stragglers milling about are being herded out of the grounds. 

Heavy in his hand is a worn pouch with the night’s earnings. A city like Midgar turns out a lot of customers and tonight has been their best yet. It’s a shame they can’t stay longer, but Cloud’s getting that restless, too-tight feeling under his skin when he’s stationary for too long. Costa del Sol will be nice though. Denzel’s still pretty new to the troupe, and he’s never been to the beach.

“What are you doing?”

Uh-oh. Tifa’s found him, tucked far into the back, nearly completely hidden in the shadows of a large tent. He shrugs.

“Sitting.”

“You’re trying to avoid cleanup again, aren’t you?”

Cloud’s brow furrows just the slightest bit. “I don’t do that.”

Tifa snorts. Instead of being ugly or humanizing, it’s frustratingly attractive. “And I’m a chocobo’s uncle.”

Movement in the distance, a flash of silver, stalls Cloud’s reply as he focuses his gaze forward once more. 

He must look serious because Tifa drops the scolding.

“What? What is it?”

“Not sure.” Cloud watches the hooded figure weave between tents, caution and tension in their every movement. “Pretty sure we’ve got another hopeful.”

Tifa gazes Cloud’s way, trying to catch a glimpse. The moon is on her side and she too catches the bit of silver. Her brows rise.

“Cloud, don’t.”

“I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“You  _ will. _ You can’t keep taking in every runaway that wanders our way. People will start thinking we’re kidnappers.”

Another careless shrug. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

“It  _ could.” _

Cloud rises. “I’m gonna go say hi.” He hands Tifa the bag of money and she takes it reflexively.

Cloud walks away but Tifa is hot on his heels. “Like I’m letting you meet some stranger  _ alone.” _

The person knows they’ve been spotted almost as soon as Cloud heads over. It’s written all over the suddenly rigid posture, the carefully lowered hood, casting the features in shadow.

Cloud had been observing this new mystery for a few minutes, had noticed the hunched figure during the show, preternaturally still and silent as the rest of the audience yelled and screamed, gasped and laughed. This one had been towards the front, easy to spot, and there was something undeniably tragic in the posture, the silence, that had called out to him.

And now, seeing him slink through Cloud’s camp like a thing hunted, makes him want to help. To try.

“Hey there.” 

The most minute of movement of the head lets Cloud know that he has the stranger’s attention. But he doesn’t breathe a word, just stands there still as a statue. Cloud, however, is well-versed in coaxing words from wary runaways and settles in to wait, hands tucked into his pockets, expression blank but open.

Eventually, when Cloud shows a disinclination for screaming, the stranger speaks.

“Am I in trouble?”

Deep, male. The voice of someone commanding, strong. What could he be running from?

“Well,  _ technically,  _ you’re trespassing. This is the living area of the park.”

“I—I see. I didn’t mean to intrude. I wanted—”

“To stow away?”

The abrupt silence is all too telling.

“I don’t really mind,” Cloud goes on with a shrug. “We give people lifts to the next town all the time?”

“What if I want to go further?”

“How far do you mean?”

The answer is very soft, loaded with words unsaid. “Very far.”

“Hm.” Worrying words, but Cloud doesn’t prod. So far, everyone he’d picked up in his troop was a good, decent person who’d fallen on hard times or just some bad luck. He isn’t about to interrogate him. “Not the ‘staying in one place’ type, huh?”

“...No. I suppose I’m not.”

“Me either. So, what is it you want?”

“To...stay. If I could. For as long as possible.”

Cloud opens his mouth, but Tifa is there.

“Well, what can you  _ do?” _

“...Do?”

“We don’t have drifters here. We all work. We support one another.” Tifa crosses her arms, her red gloves creaking. “So, what can you do?”

The stranger shifts and that peek of silver slides out from beneath the hood; a long tendril of hair, drifting far past his shoulder.

“I...am strong.”

“How strong?”

Firm, as if there isn’t a doubt in the world. “Very.”

Cloud and Tifa exchange a look, Tifa doubtful yet curious, Cloud just pleased. This one...he’s interesting. Cloud already likes him. Still, something skittish lingers in his demeanor and Cloud is determined to do something about it.

“We get a lot of people here who are running from something.” The stranger stiffened. “We don’t ask questions, because it’s not our business. All we ask is that you earn your keep and look out for each other. You want to leave later? That’s fine.”

Cloud risks stepping a little closer. “You can be safe here. While you’re with us, we’ll look out for you. Just return the favor if it comes up.”

Cloud felt himself studied, but after a long moment, pale hands reached up and pulled down the hood.

Long silver hair spilled out like a waterfall. Bright, sharp green eyes and perfectly arched brows. Simply put, he was gorgeous. Cloud’s eyes widened slightly, but he otherwise didn’t react.

The green eyes were watching Cloud warily, as if by seeing his face Cloud would suddenly become incensed.

“I’m Cloud. I’m kind of in charge here.” Cloud shrugged, not really one for titles. “And you are?”

“...Sephiroth.”

Cloud smiles and offers his hand. After a hesitant moment, Sephiroth takes it and Cloud shakes. Green eyes widen in surprise and the wary caution melts away into bewilderment; Sephiroth very much looks like he’s along for the ride, as if he’s never shaken before. Cloud’s smile widens.

“I think we can find a place for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Meh. I wanted to do a lot more, but time ran out on me. I kind of want to write more for this AU...
> 
> Title is [Eden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmWbBUxSNUU).


End file.
